


The Wedding of Good and Evil(ish)

by shouldbeover



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff and Humor, Footnotes, Humor, Implied Sexual Content, Lower Tadfield (Good Omens), M/M, Mentioned The Them (Good Omens), Weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:54:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24069199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shouldbeover/pseuds/shouldbeover
Summary: The wedding of Aziraphale and Crowley. That's it. It's in a garden in Tadfield, and they take off for their honeymoon starting in Paris.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 9





	The Wedding of Good and Evil(ish)

**Author's Note:**

> Tiny mention of two Supernatural characters, but you don't need to know anything about Supernatural, as they are explained, and this isn't going to be a cross over in any meaningful sense. There might be two chapters but I'll mark them clearly so you can skip them.

It’s in a garden.

The garden of Jasmine Cottage to be precise, on a glorious English summer day, the Pulsifer-Devices having chosen to buy the cottage when it surprisingly came on the market.

The flowers were exquisite, every one in perfect, verdant bloom. Whether this was due to a certain angel walking along the rows and whispering about how important and special a day it was, and how he would be ever so obliged if they would put their best face forward, as it were, or whether, simply because Adam Young, former Anti-Christ, encouraged beauty in Tadfield, wherever he went, is unknown, and unimportant.[1]

There were a variety of compromises made on both sides, in order to bring the glorious day to pass.

When they first settled on doing it, really doing it, Crowley showed Aziraphale a number of styles of formal wear from thick wedding magazines, with strange collars, and an alarming number of buttons. After much sulking from Crowley and much benign smiling and tender gazes from Aziraphale, they agreed on the classic morning suit. Crowley with a black silk brocade waistcoat with a pattern of snakes and ivy, and Aziraphale a pastel tartan in Dupioni. In his flat in London, Crowley grew a Black Magic Rose for himself, and a Boule de Neige for Aziraphale on the same plant for their boutonnieres.

Crowley put his foot down regarding the gavotte.

“No, absolutely not. No one but you knows the steps anyway.”

“Oh, but we could hand out the instructions on nice card stock, and…”

“No.”

Crowley did not back down, no matter how many times Aziraphale widened his blue eyes just so. Aziraphale reluctantly let it go.

The proposal, which by necessity preceded the wedding, for all of building for at least 2,000 years, and being run over and over in various permutations in the minds of both participants since the Armagedoff, was somewhat accidental.

They received their invitation to the Pulsifer-Device wedding. Crowley was snarky and cynical—barely know each other, they don’t know if Agnes said it would last, what with burning the second book and all, marriage is just a silly excuse to do ridiculous things. “Bridezillas! That was Beelzebub. They love that kind of crazy!” But secretly he was delighted that they’d been invited, and that Newt and Anathema had found each other. He would, however, breathe fire on anyone who guessed his true feelings.

Aziraphale was openly delighted. Marriage! For all of its corruptions and problems through the years, finding one’s soulmate was so beautiful, so pure, like returning to the garden. He immediately started planning their gift and gazing dreamily into the middle distance imagining what a lovely bride Anathema would make.

He was a bit wounded at Crowley’s dismissal of the idea. It had been weighing on his mind. They were on each other’s side now, certainly, in all ways, body and soul. And marriage was such a human thing. ‘Til death do us part a bit silly for two immortal, ethereal beings. But still…formally, with friends, in nice clothes and lovely food… He pushed it out of his mind as something Crowley wasn’t interested in and that there was no point harboring silly, secret dreams.

Until…late that night, Crowley had mumbled, “Weddingsss. Nicssse, you, flowers…”

Crowley had certainly been asleep, but then don’t they say that we speak the truth in sleep that we dare not when awake? Someone must have said something like that, somewhere.

Crowley didn’t mention it when he was awake, and a few days went by, where Aziraphale waited for some sign before, as was often the case, he made the first move.

“You know, my dear, I know you said that weddings are silly, and they ARE, of course, but they do…signify, don’t they…?”

“Perfectly silly, lot of money for one day, half end in divorce. Perfectly ridiculous.”

“But, after all, if the two people involved have known and loved each other for a long time, a very, very long time, mightn’t it be a way of…well, be just a lovely occasion to share that with friends.” He traced a pattern on the white tablecloth.

Crowley stared at him, letting his sunglasses slide down just a little. “Angel?”

“Dearest?”

“Are you…are you proposing?”

“Well, you rather did, the other night, and I know you were nearly asleep, but…”

“I most certainly did not!” Crowley exclaimed. “And we agreed, no punishing the other for things we do in our sleep! I don’t smother you with a pillow when you snore!”

Aziraphale ignored the comment on his snoring (which he was quite certain he did not do). “Are you saying that marrying me would be a punishment?”

“WHAT? Of course not, it’s just…” Crowley tapered off realizing that marrying Aziraphale would be the farthest thing from a punishment [2], more a blessing really, as if he could possibly be more blessed than he was already, simply having Aziraphale’s love.

“Marriage…” he trailed off. In his mind, he thought, “This is my husband, Aziraphale. I’m his husband. We’re married.” It wasn’t so bad once you got used to it.

Aziraphale was waiting anxiously for Crowley’s answer. His eyes flickering from the tablecloth to Crowley rapidly in the way he had.[3]

“And just think,” he replied, playing his trump card, “how upset our home offices will be, once it’s official. They do so love their bureaucracy, don’t they? The paperwork on this will give them nightmares for years.”

Crowley’s eyes glowed behind the tinted glass, “You really are a bit evil, aren’t you, Angel?”

“Oh, hush,” replied Aziraphale, putting his hand on Crowley’s on the table.

They waited a decent time after Anathema and Newt had gotten married to make their announcement. They decided to marry on the second anniversary of the Armageddon that wasn’t.

The organization was surprisingly easy. It turned out that among her many sidelines, Madam Tracy, or rather Mrs. Marjorie Shadwell nee Potts[4] as she was now known, was ordained to perform marriage ceremonies. For a small sum. She had only been hired once before for another gay couple, and so was perfectly delighted to be asked by her erstwhile body sharer and the man-shaped-being he so clearly adored.

There were only a few guests, almost none on Crowley’s side at all, and so the Them, acting as ushers, seated their own parents there. Their parents had only the vaguest idea of who these people were, and couldn’t quite understand why they had been invited, but being British, dutifully bought a present from the registry Crowley had set up[5] at Marks and Spencers[6] and put on nice clothes and sat in the beribboned seats. “At least,”commented Mr. Wenslydale to Mr. Young, “they seem to have set out a nice spread and not skimped on the alcohol.”

Peering out through the curtains of Jasmine cottage on the morning of, Aziraphale was saddened at how few friends either of them had had, and how Crowley seemed to have none at all. Once they both had lots of friends, artists, musicians, authors, even royalty. But those were the days before cameras. Easy to say, oh, that isn’t me in the background of that painting, don’t be silly. Harder to say, no I looked the same the night “Oklahoma” opened on Broadway as the night “Hamilton” did. They’d also been a bit more focused on their jobs then, so being near the powerful and famous was more essential. In their time on earth they had been close to some, but in the way of all things, most of them were gone. They’d both been rather neglectful of their duties long before deciding to raise the non-Antichrist together.

Aziraphale had a few booksellers he knew that he’d invited. Men who looked as dusty and worn as the books they sold. Some people that they had met in the village (although, pointedly NOT R.P. Tyler) were invited, again with only the vaguest idea why they were there.

In order to fill out the numbers, Anathama, with the couple’s permission, invited some of her own family, who wanted to know how the prophesies, by which they had lived their lives, had played out.

Crowley noticed two guests who sat near the back that Aziraphale hadn’t mentioned inviting. One was an angel, of that Crowley was sure, but lacking any of the pomposity of the heavenly hosts Crowley remembered. The other, a young-looking man, with wide eyes and a wondering expression at everything, was…something else. There was no time to ask Aziraphale about it before the ceremony though.

Aziraphale and Crowley first saw each other in their wedding finery as they came from opposite sides of the house to join and walk down the aisle together, there really being no one suited to give either of them away. It was the first time they had seen each other in a week.

Crowley had announced on Friday morning the week before, over poached eggs and toast, that he was going to be away for the next few days.

“But, our wedding!”

“Oh, hush, Angel. You and Anathema and Mrs. Shadwell have it all under control. I’d just be in the way. We both know that you’re the bride.”

Aziraphale sniffed. “As Pepper says, neither of us is the bride or groom, as such applications of gender hardly suit…”

Crowley looked at him pointedly over the top of his copy of Infernal Times.[7]

Aziraphale ceded the point, but still looked heartbroken.

Crowley lowered the paper and took Aziraphale’s hand. “I just have to take care of a few things. I will be back to walk down the aisle with you. I’ll pick up the catering and flowers in London and meet you there.”

“What things?” pouted Aziraphale.

“Just some…things. You know, loose ends.” He waved his hand in the air in a vague, all-encompassing gesture.

“Saying good-bye to former lovers or something?” Aziraphale asked, with an equal measure of trepidation and teasing.

Crowley kissed Aziraphale’s hand. “Don’t be silly, Angel. There’s only you, only ever been you.” And then, because he was still a bit of a demon (and still a bit put-out about waking up from his long, pleasant nap and learning that Aziraphale had been busy fraternizing). “Aren’t there some Dear John letters you need to write?”

Aziraphale moved his hand up to stroke Crowley’s face. “Of course not.” And then, because HE was just a bit of a bastard. “Anyway, anyone I had a dalliance with—while you were asleep, I might remind you—is long dead.”

Crowley growled, pulled Aziraphale into his lap, and proceeded to erase all thoughts of any other being that the angel might have known, carnally or otherwise.

Where Crowley went.

Crowley flew to India, in a very non-miracle kind of way, that is to say in an airplane. He then travelled overland to the state of Bihar and hiked into the forest. He spent a day as a snake, just for the fun of it, and then got to the purpose of his trip. Deep in the forest, largely overgrown and untrammeled, was a cave temple to an almost forgotten Hindu deity. A few locals trekked out once or twice a year to clean it up, but it was fundamentally as unchanged in the present day as it had been in 600 CE when he’d first stumbled upon it.[8]

A few presses of the right stones,[9] and the base of the statue opened up. He was happy to find that the miracle he’d placed around the box inside had prevented damage, packed it carefully in an acid free conservationist box he’d brought for the purpose, and left, leaving the slight miracle that kept the temple fairly hidden, safely intact. There might be a time when he needed a good place to hide things in the future. You never knew.

Having retrieved what he’d set out to get, he trekked back to the nearest airport, flew to Paris for some special treats for the angel, and then back to London.

There had been many discussions about food at the reception. Not disagreements, but deep discussions and debates.

Aziraphale loved to eat. Crowley loved that Aziraphale loved to eat. He loved to watch his angel eat. The way he savored each morsel. How he followed every fad in food far more religiously[10] than fads in clothing. Crowley would have loved to have a wedding banquet featuring all of his angel’s favorite foods, old and new, and was perfectly willing to go around the world and miracle them back. Crepes from France, real sushi from Japan,[11] Borscht from the Ukraine, Jambalaya from New Orleans. He’d have had custom made treasures from the past recreated. A dozen doves released from the belly of a boar, no problem. He’d have gotten him a Philly Cheese Steak, or packaged, sliced, processed cheese, if that’s what his angel wanted. 

However, Aziraphale didn’t want to be showy. “The Them will be there,” he pointed out. “And you know children won’t be interested in caviar or Scallops en Crouet. Not to mention their parents. Goodness, if we served everything you’re suggesting, we’d have a feast for days. And not everything would go together, plus there would be the wines. All of those take different wines! No, no, we must do things more simply.”

Several custom hampers from Fortnum and Masons were duly ordered.

They did decide to splurge on the cake and champagne. They ordered the cake from Fiona Cairns, who had done for Prince William and Kate Middleton, although of a much more modest size, along with a large selection of Aziraphale’s favorite desserts, pastries, biscuits and candies. It was far, far too much food for the tiny number of guests, but Anathema was tasked with distributing the leftovers to the people of the village, Aziraphale miracling up a few extra refrigerators (that were never plugged in) for her use. He gave her free rein to use her discretion, and boxes were sent to several charities catering to the homeless of England after the happy couple left.

They reserved any leftover cake for themselves and many of the desserts to stay fresh in Crowley’s refrigerator until they returned from their honeymoon.[12]

However, since Aziraphale was being denied fine dining, or even not so fine dining, and thus Crowley denied the joy of watching Aziraphale enjoy fine dining, Crowley was able to convince Aziraphale to take a very long honeymoon around the world, sampling the delicacies of every culture.[13]

“Oh, that sounds lovely, my dear. What a wonderful idea. I haven’t been to Australia in ages. And Africa has changed so since the end of colonialism. And there’s all of the Americas. I’ve hardly been there at all!”

All in all, it was a very sensible plan.

Crowley swept into London in the early hours of his wedding day, cut the roses from the bush in his flat, drove to Fortnum and Masons, who found themselves opening early for a special customer and then closing again to open at a more reasonable time. Fiona Cairns was quite used to being up in the early hours for weddings and had the cake ready to go.

He shoved all of it into the Bentley with a large number of miracles and headed to Tadfield.

Of the ceremony itself, little needs to be said. It was very beautiful. The groom on the right cried. The groom on the left, who oddly continued to wear sunglasses until the one on the right pushed them up during the vows, had tears on his cheeks (although anyone who mentioned it would have found all of their tires flat when they went to drive away). The officiant cried several times and had trouble getting through the words of the ceremony. Mrs. Young cried, even though she still wasn’t sure why she cared about these two strangers. Mr. Shadwell was entrusted with turning the music on at the right moments—all he had to do was push a button on the extraordinarily expensive sound system--to Newt’s great sorrow, although he certainly understood why he wasn’t allowed within ten feet of the sound system and was urged not to walk in front of the speakers.

The vows were spoken quietly, groom to groom with music playing over them. Declarations of a love that had burned for at least two thousand years and promises of devotion until the end of time itself. Rings were exchanged, black obsidian for Crowley, and white gold for Aziraphale.

All the cheeses, meats, little artisan breads, and crackers were consumed with great joy, as was the champagne of a finer vintage than probably any guest had ever had.[14]

There were no speeches, no funny stories, and really, it was fine. Crowley did shove a piece of cake in Aziraphale’s face, unplanned, and Aziraphale reciprocated, although, quite by chance, none of the cake hit their pristine suits.

After a time, the chairs were pushed back. The grooms danced, or rather held one another and swayed, gently in time, to Vera Lynn’s recording of “Yours” from 1941[15] and “Moonglow” sung by Billie Holliday.

Yours 'til the stars lose their glory  
Yours 'til the birds fail to sing  
Yours to the end of our life's story  
This pledge to you dear, I bring

Yours in the grey of December  
Here or on far distant shores

I've never loved anyone the way I love you  
How could I, when I was born to be  
Just yours[16]

I still hear you sayin', "Dear one, hold me fast"  
And I keep on prayin', "Oh Lord, please let this last"

We seemed to float right through the air  
Heavenly songs seemed to come from everywhere[17]

After that they left the floor to let the younger couples enjoy Bebop, and sat back just to watch. After all, they’d been watching humanity for 6,000 years.

Crowley tilted his head towards the strange angel who seemed to become even more awkward as the evening wore on, although he was drinking with the enthusiasm of a being who knows he doesn’t need to suffer a hangover, “Who is that angel?”

“Oh, that’s Castiel.”

“And?”

“He’s just a guardian angel. He became rather more entangled with his human after he pulled him from Hell—”

“HE WHAT?”

“Do calm down. It has happened before apparently, although your side would hardly have advertised. He wrote to me, as a Principality, for advice when they were facing some issues with demons possessing bodies, and other terrible things somewhere in the middle of the United States, but it was just after we’d gone to work for the Dowlings, so I couldn’t really spare the time to go over. It seems they muddled through alright in the end, though.”

“And the other?” Crowley gestured with his wine glass towards the young man who was now talking earnestly with Adam despite the difference in their age, the boy appearing to be in his late teens, while Adam was only now thirteen. Strangely, Adam seemed older and wiser in comparison.

“His name is Jack, and he’s…well, I guess he’s Adam’s half-brother.”

This time Crowley couldn’t even form any semblance of words.

“Fwwbght? He imnpqr? Ngk!”

“I guess what happened was that after Adam disowned his father, Lucifer tried again, only this time planning to raise the child himself, but Castiel and his humans managed to raise him instead. Evidently, he grew to his present age within days of his birth. But being trained, as it were, by an angel, and some strong and compassionate humans, he became as good as Adam is, and dismissed his father as well. Interesting how humans manage to do that. Take what seems to be absolutely written and throw a spanner right in the works, simply by being themselves.”

There was nothing to be said to that. Crowley took a long swig of his champagne and nodded.

Jack went out to the field behind the house and sat down with Adam, but that conversation deserves another chapter.

Crowley was horrified to discover that the Them had done the traditional thing of tying tin cans to the back of his beloved Bentley, but tried to take it in good grace. He snapped them out of existence as soon as they left Tadfield.

Anathama and Newt promised to go up to London the next day to put the cake in the refrigerator in Crowley’s flat, and to look in, now and then, on the plants. Crowley had set up automatic sprinklers, and made it clear he would not tolerate any slackers, just in case they got ideas.

They took some pastries for the road—just in case they got puckish--changed clothes, and set off to drive to Paris.

About twenty-five miles later, Aziraphale said, “Crowley, dearest, do pull into that layby, over where it’s secluded.” Crowley assumed that Aziraphale wanted to gets some treats out of the boot.

Instead, Crowley suddenly found himself in the backseat of the Bentley, space having rather been bent to make it far bigger and more comfortable than it had any right to be, half undressed, with an equally half naked angel wriggling in his lap.

“Angel, not in the Bentley, we talked about this!”[18]

“But I haven’t seen you in a week,” Aziraphale pouted, and wiggled some more. “And it’s our honeymoon!”

Crowley let his head fall back as Aziraphale attacked his neck. “Oh, alright. But this is the last time!”[19]

After their quick but satisfying coupling, Aziraphale seemed content to watch the scenery go by, occasionally pulling a box of pastries out and nibbling. He seemed to take even more enjoyment in them than usual, with several long moans, and careful licking of fingers. Occasionally he would take Crowley’s hand, or simply rest his hand on Crowley’s thigh, higher than might pass for accidental, but never quite high enough for Crowley’s liking.

The result was that by the time they reached the outskirts of Paris, some five hours later, Crowley was half spare with frustrated desire.

They had barely stepped into their luxurious honeymoon suite wen Crowley had his angel, his husband, pressed against the door. “You’ve been doing it on purpose, haven’t you, you bastard?”

Aziraphale tilted his head back to give Crowley access to his neck, groaned at the touch of Crowley’s tongue, and yet, somehow still found the sass to say, “I have no idea what you could possibly mean, my dear.”

Crowley proceeded to show him exactly what he meant, against the wall, in the spacious shower, leading to the shower curtain being half torn off of its rings, on a plane about three feet above the enormous bed, and finally, on the bed itself.[20]

Around midnight, the happy couple surfaced for air. There were black and white feathers everywhere, mingled with regular goose down from a pillow that had met an untimely end. The bedside lamp had been shattered, and even the one across the room had been tipped over. The duvet was half on the floor, and many of the pillows had hidden under the bed after seeing what had happened to their friend.

With a snap of Crowley’s fingers, everything was as pristine as it had been when they’d entered the room, including the unfortunate shower curtain, and even more unfortunate pillow. He and Aziraphale were still naked, but clean, the covers neatly folded down at their feet.

“Oh, my, my dear,” Aziraphale said, still breathless, “that was quite…scrumptious.”

Crowley threw back his head and laughed. “Only you, my angel, would call marathon sex scrumptious.”

“Well, it was,” replied Aziraphale petulantly. With a soft smile, he added, “you are.”

Crowley kissed him. What else could he do? “Have I told you how much I adore you?”

Aziraphale smiled. “Often. And not always with words.” He was a little put out that Crowley then leapt from the bed.

“Speaking of!” Crowley said, triumphantly, returning to the bed with a pastry box, and a much larger, beautifully wrapped box in his hands, neither of which had been there a few minutes before.

“Oh, oh, I have something for you too, my dear!” Cried Aziraphale said, running to his luggage to pull out an equally large, beautiful box from luggage that certainly could never have contained it.

“First, the pastry.” Crowley presented what he’d picked up in Paris. Inside was a perfect chocolate souffle, as warm and airy as if it had just been taken out of the oven by a master baker. The champagne, which they had mostly ignored in favor of simply tasting each other, found itself perfectly chilled again. Crowley poured them each a glass. The hotel, despite having an excellent cellar, had been very surprised to find such a rare vintage on a back shelf after the couple had asked if they could check again.

“Le Souffle! I haven’t been there since, oh ’63, just a few years after they opened. My darling, you remembered.”

“Of course. I remember every place we’ve ever eaten together. From Petronius on.”

“Oh, my love, my dearest heart, my Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, and had to wipe away a tear. “I kept you waiting so long, and you were always there, so patient, so kind—”

“Hush, Angel. I know. We’re here now.” Crowley shook himself before he started crying too. “Do you want to eat first, or open your groom’s gift? You’ll want to have clean hands.”

“Ooo,” squealed Aziraphale, putting the pastry aside. “Is it a book? It’s a book, isn’t it! An old book. A set of books?”

“Open and find out!”

“Should I put on gloves? I should put on gloves, shouldn’t I?”

“If you like. I’ve put protections on it, but I know you like to do it the old-fashioned way.”

Forewarned, Aziraphale opened the long, narrow box with reverence. He peeled away the acid free paper and found a teak box covered in Sanskrit. Inside was a very long scroll. Aziraphale’s eyes grew huge. “It’s the Mahabharata.” He hardly dared breathe, lest he disturb the ancient text. “Oh, Crowley, it’s so old.”

“Six-hundred CE, or thereabouts,” said Crowley with some pride.

“How, how did you ever find it?” The pure awe and adoration in Aziraphale’s eyes was too much to bear. Crowley looked away.

“I, uh, hid it away after I found it. Kept thinking of giving it to you, but never seemed the right time. Glad I waited. That’s why I went away. I had to go retrieve it from India.”

“You’ve kept this? For almost fifteen hundred years? For me?”

“Well, who else was I going to give it to?” Crowley threw up his hands. He looked awkwardly at the curtained window as if he could see through them to the glory of Paris, only a few hundred years younger than the box in Aziraphale’s hands. He stayed that way until he heard a sniffle behind him.

“Angel? What’s the matter, my darling, don’t cry! Please, it’s a mere trifle in the scheme of things. I—”

Aziraphale had carefully rewrapped the box and placed it beside himself on the bed. He was holding Crowley’s present and looking at it with despair. “I…I didn’t get you anything so nice. So perfect. Mine’s so, so thoughtless!”

Crowley sat down on the now crowded bed. “Oh, no, no, angel, no! You could have gotten me socks, and it would be as precious to me as—”

“Open it,” said Aziraphale forlornly, thrusting it into Crowley’s hands.

Confused, Crowley opened the box. Inside was a computer, and several smaller boxes containing a phone and phone accessories. They bore a distinctive logo

one he had suggested to Steve Jobs, although he wasn’t sure that Aziraphale knew that.

“Is this…is this a Mac Pro, and an iPhone XS Max?” he said with wonder in his voice.

“I…I don’t know! The man at the store said it was the very latest and best of everything when I said money was no object! And there’s the picture thing waiting for you in your flat because it seemed too unwieldy to bring. But it’s so impersonal, and I’ll get you something better—”

Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s fluttering hands. “You went in. To a Mac store. For me?”

“Well, yes, but it’s nothing like saving something for a thousand years!”

“Angel, I can’t believe—that must have been so nerve wracking for you!”

Aziraphale looked up at him finally, “It…it was, but it was for you, and I know you like to have the newest and best, and…I.”

“Angel, I am as moved by this gift as you are with yours. It means the world to me that you thought of it, thought of me like that. Don’t you see? We both got each other exactly what we knew the other would like, even though it took a little effort. I love you, my darling, dearest Angel.”

Aziraphale sniffled. “You really like it?”

“I love it. And I love you.” He kissed Aziraphale’s forehead. “Now, let’s pack these away, and drink champagne and you can eat your souffle, and tomorrow we’ll go to L’Arpege and the next day we’ll go to La Tour d’Argent—do you remember, we went there when they started using forks—wherever you like.”

Aziraphale threw his arms around Crowley’s neck. “Do you think the souffle will keep, my love? Because I rather think I’d like something else right now.”

“It will if I tell it to, naughty angel. Now, what did you have in mind?”

[1] It is NOT because a demon walked among them threatening doom to any who dared disappoint for three reasons: one, because it takes time to really build up fear that you are going to do what you said you are going to do; two, because said demon didn’t want to incur the wrath of either the angel, or the former Anti-Christ-possibly-most-powerful-being-on-the-planet; three, because the demon had been out of the country for a week (more on that later).

[2] He also realized he had played right into Aziraphale’s hands. It wasn’t the first time. It wouldn’t be the last.

[3] A way he may have been certain Crowley had a hard time resisting.

[4] Technically, she wasn’t yet Mrs. Shadwell, for tax reasons, but she’d never really been Madam Tracy either, so she didn’t see anything particularly wrong with the deception. As long as no one asked for her driving license.

[5] The angel and demon really didn’t need much, having settled into their lives as they were for 6,000 years, and being able to miracle anything they really needed, but Crowley had delighted in going through Marks and Spencer and waving the scanning gun. There was much debate about which side had invented the wedding registry, indeed, much debate about which side had invented weddings, being both blessings and curses, and certainly Adam and Eve had never been married, rendering their children bastards. The wedding registry seemed to simultaneously encourage a reckless embrace of material goods over the focus on joining individuals in love, but it also served as a life saver for young couples just starting out, who could get a decent frying pan from their relatives, rather than a dozen novelty salt and pepper sets.

[6] Why Marks and Spencers? Well, they were reasonably priced, weren’t they?

[7] To which he still appeared to have a subscription. There had been, conspicuously, no mention of his trial and its failure, and references to the Apocalypse suggested that everything before the events at the Tadfield Airforce base was merely a test of Hell’s armies’ readiness. Real apocalypse to be scheduled at a later date. It gave Orwell’s Ministry of Truth a run for its money in terms of double-speak.

[8] He’d been a snake then too.

[9] It took him a couple of tries. It had been a long time since he’d been there, and there was no helpful “Have you forgotten your password?” icon.

[10] If one dares to use that word for worldly and decidedly non-Heavenlike pleasures.

[11] Even Whale.

[12] It didn’t dare go bad.

[13] Aziraphale really didn’t need that much convincing.

[14] The champagne in the two groom’s glasses was even older and finer, but since only they would really be able to appreciate it, Aziraphale let it go.

[15] 1941 being a very important year.

[16] Songwriters: A. Gamse / G. Roig / J. Sherr

[17] Songwriters: Eddie Delange / Irving Mills / W Hudson

[18] Not really. The first time that Aziraphale had tried the miracle, Crowley HAD said, “No, absolutely not in the Bentley.” However, that had quickly been followed by, “Oh, yesss, Angel. Thatsss nicccee,” so Aziraphale had dismissed it as unimportant.

[19] It wouldn’t be.

[20] Champagne was delivered while they were in the bathroom. Aziraphale managed to snap his fingers in time to leave a substantial tip on the bureau. The bellhop was perfectly used to not seeing the honeymooning couple on their wedding night, or, indeed during much of their stay. They took their money and left the happy couple to it.

**Author's Note:**

> So many notes. I started this right after the show aired. Beat on it. Put it aside. Dug it out. Beat on it some more. Put everything else on hold for it waiting to publish it. And here it is.  
> I looked up songs from 1941, and found two perfect ones.  
> Comments welcomed, encouraged, begged for.  
> I'm going to have some short chapters around the cities they visit. Feel free to make recommendations of what you'd like to see, and ideas you might have.


End file.
